


A Fractured Mind

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, now with sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-25 11:33:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns after 3 years, but all is not quite well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClandestinePen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClandestinePen/gifts).



> I wrote this as a make-up gift to clandestinepen, whose Secret Santa stood her up. Because I adore her, and she deserved something awesome! Instead, she's getting this... which has yet to prove itself awesome. But I can assure you of one thing: it *is* most definitely a thing.
> 
> The prompt I got was Johnlock + water. Love some smut, angst is nice but not necessary. Well. This isn't precisely Johnlock yet. It's not water yet. It's not even in the same post code as smut yet. But there is angst. The rest... well... I have a plan. Tags will be updated as I go.
> 
> Merry (very belated) Christmas! I hope you don't hate it. ♥
> 
> ***EDIT: IF YOU'VE ALREADY STARTED READING THIS, IT SERVES TO NOTE THAT I'VE CHANGED IT TO FIRST PERSON AND COMBINED THE FIRST TWO CHAPTERS TO FACILITATE THIS CHANGE. SORRY FOR ANY CONFUSION. I FEEL THIS FORMAT AND POV BETTER SERVE THE STORY, AND IT'S MY DUTY AS AN AUTHOR TO BEST SERVE ANY STORY I TAKE THE TIME TO WRITE.***

The papers heralded Sherlock’s return as valiant. They called his resurrection a miracle. Most people were none the wiser, but John Watson wasn’t most people.

There was something different about Sherlock, something off. Their silences were no longer comfortable, his eyes no longer serene. Somewhere in the distance, over the three years he was away, he seemed to have lost his focus, his calm. His ears seemed to prick too easily, his gaze darting a bit too often. It was like he’d been through Hell and come out the other side with Lucifer on his back, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. And, in the moments John would find him muttering to himself, there was almost no trace of the man he once knew.

John lived the first days of Sherlock’s return in a blissful combination of shock and ignorance. The tension was expected, the silences apropos. One man was coming out of mourning, acclimating to life with an apparition, while the dead man was simply learning to live again.

Perhaps you’d have expected something different, something more profound. Rage, joy, flowery professions of love—at the very least, an explanation of what happened and why. And that’s fair. It’s not, however, what happened. Apologies and reasoning were necessities of ordinary men, something the occupants of 221B had never been and would never be.  Sure, John expected those things would come with time, but he was also quick to accept what he was given without (much) argument.

***

“Are you ever going to tell me how—”

“Classified.”

“Then, perhaps, why—”

“Safety.”

“Whose safety?”

“Everyone’s safety.”

“You don’t care about every—”

“Everyone I  _do_  care about. Important people.”

“So, yourself?” (There’s a chance I was slightly bitter about the lack of information I was receiving.)

_—glare—_

“Mycroft?”

_—more intense glare—_

“Right. Important. Lestrade?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes.”

“Molly?”

“Surprisingly, no.”

“Me?”

“Obviously.”

“Maybe to you.” My fingers drummed against the desk. “Anyone else?”

“No one.”

“Right. And we’re safe now?”

_—terse nod—_

“Anything else you’d like to tell me?”

“… No.”

“Right.” With one last (frustrated) double-tap of my fist, I rose and left—only the sound of my bedroom door following in my wake.


	2. Leave Me Alone... But Don't Leave Me

Under the right circumstances, five days could feel like an eternity. Under mine, they felt like an eternity twice over. And, at the end of two eternities, the ding of a text message sounded like salvation.

_Meet me for a pint? –Greg_

_Oh, god, yes –JW_

_Be there in 15 –Greg_

_Could be halfway through my first in 15 –JW_

_That bad? –Greg_

_And then some… See you there –JW_

But it was Greg who would be halfway through his first round by the time I arrived.

                                                            ***

I was halfway out the door when Sherlock rounded the corner into the parlour. “John?”

I hummed my acknowledgment.

“Where are you going?”

“Pub, not that it’s any of your business.”

“Could you just—”

“Let me guess… You need something for an experiment, and could I just pop ‘round the shop—”

“—not.”

“Not?”

“Not go.”

“Um… no? I can’t… not?”

“That’s a double-neg—”

“I realize that. If that’s all then, I’ll just be off.”

“Don’t.”

I pursed my lips, rocking from the heels to the balls of my feet and back. “Gonna need a better reason that that, Sherlock. Or have you forgotten how freedom works? Because, I’ll be honest, I’ve not really got the time or patience to explain it to you right this instant.”

“I want you to stay… here.”

“Yeah, I got that much. And I’d prefer to go have a pint with Greg. You really used to be more observant—”

“Just stay. It’s not sa…” Sherlock trailed off, regret heavy in his eyes.

“Not safe?”

“What? No. Of course it’s… safe.” His volume dropped at least three notches, his voice moving off into the distance. “Why wouldn’t it be safe?”

And it felt like a breakthrough, a moment of opportunity. “D’you wanna talk?”

“Not really. No. I just want you—”

“Yeah—” I sighed. “—to stay. G’bye, Sherlock.” As the door swung closed behind me, I heard something that sounded a lot like ‘please’ and kept walking anyway.


	3. Friends Protect Us

“I’m already half a pint in!” Lestrade tapped his glass and smiled, motioning me toward his table. “What took you so long?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Your flat mate’s just come back from the dead. Try me.”

I shook my head, scrubbing my palm against my forehead. “Don’t get me started.”

“S’wrong?” He flagged the waitress for another round, thankfully including one for me.

“Things aren’t… right. I can’t even explain it really. He’s just not being very…”

“Sherlocky?”

“Yeah.” I chuckled as Sherlock became a rather fitting adjective. “It’s more than that, though.”

“Have you gotten any details on what happened yet?”

“All I’m going to, I suppose.”

“And?” He nodded his appreciation to the attractive young woman who set down our drinks.

For the sake of... I don't know, national security, I suppose... I waited until she walked away to answer. “Classified this, safety that. Says we were in danger.”

“We?”

“Yeah… _we_. The people he cares about: you, me, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Molly? Myc—”

“Nope. Just the three of us, apparently. Who knew?”

“And he’s not said anything else?”

“Ha! He barely makes eye contact, let alone speaking.”

“I hate to play devil’s advocate here, but you’ve gotta cut him a little slack. He was on his own for… what… three years?”

“Yeah.” I tried in vain to clear the lump from my throat. “Just over.”

“He _didn’t have to_ talk to anyone, _couldn’t_ talk to anyone. And then there’s us, leaving things the way we did…” He took a long swig of his beer. “I doubted him. Maybe not for long… but enough. Can you really tell me you were chuffed with the way—”

“No. Stop. I get it. But…” I hesitated, not sure how much more I should say. “I was late because he tried to stop me leaving the flat.”

“Wha— You mean, tonight?”

I nodded. “Practically begged me to stay but wouldn’t give me any good reason to actually do it. I thought maybe, just maybe, if I offered to stick around and talk… but…” I blinked away the stinging at the corners of my eyes with a shrug. “It was like he was panicked… except Sherlock doesn’t _do_ panic.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t wanna be alone?”

“That’s the thing… It didn’t seem like it was about him. I mean… I was raging at the time—him getting clingy the first time I finally had something better to do than sit around the flat –but it was more like he thought I might not come back. Said it wasn’t sa—”

“Safe?”

“No. That’s all he said, just ‘not sa—’” I sighed. “He stopped mid-word and just shut down after that.”

And, the way Lestrade’s expression fell told me all I needed to know: a friend is a friend… until he’s suddenly a detective.

“What if he wasn’t just being—”

“An annoying dick?”

“I was gonna say ‘himself.’”

“Is there a difference?” I huffed out a laugh that sounded more like a sob, even to me.

“No, no, no… there’s gotta be more to this.” Greg leaned forward, elbows on table and head in his hands. “He sacrificed his reputation, sacrificed _everything_ to protect us from… something. And I don’t know about you, but anything that scares Sherlock Holmes that bad isn’t something I want any part of.” He jerked his head roughly toward the door. “Go home, John.”

“Wha—? Can I at least finish my beer?”

He pulled my glass away. “Go. And text me when you get there. I’m putting a patrol car on your route tonight, just in case.”

“Oh, you cannot be ser—” I was cut short by the ‘interrogation room’ glare I received for my efforts. “Fine… fine!” I pulled on my jacket, took one last gulp from my still-more-than-half-full pint, and headed for the exit, waving a quick agreement to the ‘text me’ that rang out at my back.

It wasn’t until the ride home that the gravity of Greg's concerns really sank in. What if we were still in some sort of imminent danger? What makes Sherlock Holmes panic? And the answer? Nothing good.

I entered the flat to find Sherlock sitting stoically in his Grand Confort, absenting plucking a G on his violin. “Sherlock?”

“John?” Sherlock looked up as if my voice was the most surprising sound in the universe. He set the instrument aside, a look of relief—maybe even gratitude –instantly washing over him. And, in the space of a breath, he closed the distance between us, holding me firmly at arms length and searching my face for any sign of counterfeit. After a long few moments, he wrapped long arms around me and buried his nose in my hair. A deep breath was exchanged for a protective squeeze, and he silently retired to his room.

I hadn’t even had a chance to react when my phone dinged in my pocket.

_Did you make it home? –Greg_

_Yeah. Just now. He… hugged me. –JW_

_Shit… –Greg_

Shit, indeed.


	4. I Wasn't Haunted by the War, I Miss It

It had been just over three weeks since Sherlock’s homecoming, and nothing was right. He wasn’t taking cases, wouldn’t leave the flat; he wasn’t even experimenting. He spent all of his wake time, now broaching an average of twenty-two hours a day, on high alert against… something... and I was none the wiser as to what might be haunting him.  
  
Despite Greg’s... imaginings, cautionary instincts, whatever it was that tipped him off that night at the pub... nothing ever happened. He couldn’t seem to dig up any information to confirm or deny the existence of a threat, and Sherlock insisted—in the least reassuring way possible –there was nothing to worry about. So, onward we trudged—the stubborn leading the blind.  
  
Sherlock never asked me not to leave again, but arguably, I never tried. Every time the notion struck me,  every day I felt particularly combative, I remembered the fear in his eyes as I walked away, the relief on his face when I returned, and the unprecedented embrace that greeted me, and I could never quite bring myself to step out the front door.  
  
Perhaps it was the cabin fever talking, or maybe I was just looking for a fight... I don’t know what took hold of me. But, whatever it was, I couldn’t shake it loose. And, after a solid eight hours of trying to tamp it down, it burst forth in a fit of tossing papers and slamming heavy objects about.  
  
“Sherlock!” I may have called for him with a bit more fervor than was strictly necessary, as it only took once.

“Did you need something?” His voice was more even than his demeanor suggested, and I’d have sworn he was on drugs if not for the fact he literally hadn’t left my side in weeks.

“Well, yes, actually. I need a lot of things, mostly because _you_ put in for the wrong delivery date when you placed our order with Tesco. But, that’s neither here nor there.”

“I already apologized—”

“And I already explained that an apology wouldn't make our loo roll arrive any sooner.”

“I wasn't aware my ordering and _covering the cost_ of supplies was putting you out so terribly. Feel free to do it yourself nex—”

“Yeah? Maybe I will do it myself. What I won’t be doing myself is cleaning up after you, though. There’s papers and boxes everywhere, and you’re doing nothing with any of them. You’re a grown man, for god’s sake. The least you could do is tidy up your own damn messes.”

“You’re right, I’m so—”

“And furthermore— wait... what’d you say?”

“I said, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

I waited for the punchline, the witty retort, the jibe I knew was coming, but it wasn’t. “Good... good.” I suppose I was still looking for a fight, made even more defiant by him not giving me my way. “Well, if you’re so sorry, why don’t you do something about it?”

“Sure...” He crossed the room straight away and began attending to the pile of papers I’d assaulted only moments before. “Obviously I can... straighten things up a bit.”

In that moment, I’d have rather he hit me. I hadn’t seen him so eager to please since the day we met, back when he was still trying to _impress me? No, not impress. Woo? Not quite it, either. Ah... keep... he’s trying to keep me._ And I had no clue what I’d said or done to make him think I might ever leave.


	5. Everything Is Still Falling Apart

_Pop ‘round for a drink later? –JW_

_Sure. Everything alright? –Greg_

_Not sure. –JW_

_Trouble? –Greg_

_I think Sherlock needs to get back to work. –JW_

_Probably. Why? –Greg_

_I nagged him to clean. –JW_

_And now you’re fighting? –Greg_

_No. He’s... cleaning. –JW_

_Jesus. Be there around 9. –Greg_

_Bring beer? –JW_

_Way ahead of you. See you tonight. –Greg_

The rest of the day felt tense, probably more tense than it actually was. He cleaned, I stewed, no one spoke, and that was that. It was 9:03 when Greg knocked—not surprising, as Mrs. Hudson would have sent him right up –and I answered. A six-pack under one arm, a manila envelope in the opposite hand, and grinning like a loon, he was quite a sight for sore eyes. Not many people visited. If I wasn’t already living at 221B, I certainly wouldn’t have been making social calls. 

He barely had one foot through the door when Sherlock tried to slam it shut. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What the hell, Sherlock?” I yanked it back open incredulously to a rather bewildered Greg. “I was trying to greet our guest.”

“Guest? I wasn’t expecting a guest.”

“And I was. You might remember Greg?” I glared.

Greg waved and shot me a commiserating glance.

“Oh, it’s... _you._ ”

“Yeah, nice to see you, too. Welcome home and all that. Can I come in?”

“No—”

“Sherlock!”

“What’re you doing here?”

“I _invited_ him, Sherlock. What the hell’s gotten into you?”

“A moment, please?” He tugged me by the arm into the kitchen and out of Greg’s earshot. “What if that hadn’t been Greg at the door?”

“But it was. Who else would it have been?”

“I... I don’t know. It could have been anyone. You can’t just do... _that!_ ”

“And by _that_ , you mean—”

“Opening the door in the middle of the night to strangers.”

“Sherlock... I didn’t. It’s barely gone nine o’clock, and I was expecting him. I _invited_ him.”

“But I wasn’t expecting him, and what if he’d been someone else? What if something had happened, and I couldn’t get to you in time? What if—”

“Sherlock... I’m fine.”

“Promise me you won’t do it again.”

“Do what, Sherlock? Answer my own bloody door?”

“Yes.”

“That’s ridiculous. You can’t really expect—”

“John... I...” The look in his eyes went well beyond fear or panic. I saw the desperation of a man traumatised, furiously grasping at grains of sand as they slipped through his fingers. It was a look every soldier who had ever been on the frontline knew all too well. “Promise me?” he practically begged.

And I did.


	6. I Always Lie to Myself, But I Never Believe Me

Sherlock was already balled up in the corner of his chair by the time I joined Greg on the sofa.

“Everything alright? Should I...” Greg jerked his head toward the door.

“No, no. Everything’s fine,” I lied, pretended everything was okay, because I didn’t really even know how to explain the truth.

“So, should I be offended? Or does he get like that when anyone visits?”

“How should I know? The only other people who’ve been by are Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft. He doesn’t seem to mind her visits, and we both mind his brother’s.”

Greg chuckled. “Is Mycroft really that bad?”

“And you call yourself a detective?” Sherlock grumbled from across the room.

“Yeah, about that...” Greg never missed a beat. “I’ve brought you something.” He lifted the manila envelope above his head and shook it in Sherlock’s general direction.

“Not interested.”

“You sure about—”

“I’m not currently taking cases.”

“Good. It’s not a case.”

A few seconds passed in silence. “What is it?”

Greg shook it once again, wordlessly.

I could hear the reluctance in Sherlock’s steps as he padded closer, reaching for the envelope like it was a snake poised to strike. Torn open the moment it it was in his hands, it fluttered to the floor less than a minute later. “No. You didn’t seriously think—”

“You will if you want to work with the Met again.”

“Well, I don’t. Lucky day.”

“Would you at least consid—”

“I said no. You need me more than I need you anyway.” And wasn’t that the fucking story of Sherlock’s life, in a nutshell?

“Not this time. It’s your choice, though.”

I was starting to feel like the short kid in the middle of a game of keepaway— not that I’d know how that felt firsthand, flashbacks from my youth notwithstanding. “Someone wanna tell me what’s going on here?”

“The department wants him to submit to a psych eval before returning. It’s just a form—”

“It’s an insult, is what it is. And you’re the one in need of a psych eval if you thought for a single moment that I’d subject myself to—”

“It’s not a bad idea.” I regretted the words before they’d even fully escaped my lips.

“What’re you suggesting, John?”

“Nothing. I just... it seems silly to let something so trivial keep you from doing what you love.”

“If I was desperate to work, I could. Trust, I’ve already turned down more cases than the Met could ever offer me. I said I wasn’t interested, and  I meant it.”

“Yeah, fine. It’s your life. If you change your mind...” He cracked open a bottle. “Beer?”

I took one, and Sherlock took his leave of us with a derisive snort. I never told Greg about our conversation in the kitchen, and he didn’t ask. When he left and I headed to bed, there was still light streaming out from beneath Sherlock’s door. I want to knock, to go in, to say... _something_. He was falling apart, and I wished I could put him back together. There are few things worse than being a helpless healer, and sometimes there's just nothing to be said.


	7. My Broken Pillar

In the forty-four days since Sherlock’s resurrection, neither of us had left the flat—save for my one trip to the pub and the occasional trek downstairs to visit Mrs. Hudson. We spent our good days avoiding eye contact and barely speaking, and to say things were tense would be like calling the Second World War ‘a bit of a kerfuffle.’

It had been years since I was invalided home, and I’d spent a good deal of that time recovering from what I saw on the battlefield, developing coping mechanisms, and learning to live despite my fears. Frankly speaking, I owed at least half of my sanity to Sherlock himself. But you know what they say: that which drives a sane man mad can drive a mad man sane.  And therein lay the problem. As the man who saved my sanity slowly lost his own, I found mine slipping away as well.

When I lost Sherlock, I was forced to fall back on learned behaviours. And he returned to me but a ghost, lacking the corporeality necessary to catch my fall back into the days of the past. We were both living on the brink of madness, and I felt myself steadily descending into a life of constant despair, the life I suffered before I knew the name Sherlock Holmes.

All it took was the backfiring of a car on the street below for scalding hot tea to flood my very bare foot in an explosion of ceramic—a sort of deja vu from my first few days back on British soil. And, between the searing burn and the ever-growing pool of blood from the world’s smallest wound, I could do little more than curse and call for assistance. “FUCK! SHERLOCK! Help! I need you!” And it was true; I did need him— if only as a human crutch so as to make my trek to the loo slightly less difficult.

The lesson to be learned that day was that we don’t always get what we expect. See, I _expected_ to have to call out several more times, ultimately be ignored, and eventually limp my way across the flat unassisted. What I _got_ , however, was a panicked Sherlock standing over me with my alarmingly cocked and incredibly loaded service revolver.

“Sh-sherlock?” I cautiously reached for the weapon, the pain of my foot and the crimson puddle surrounding it immediately vanishing from my mind. “What’re you doing with my gun?”

His hand was trembling, his finger far too close to the trigger for my liking. “I… I heard a gunshot; I know I did.”

“No—” I placed my hands on either side of his. “—you didn’t.” The tension was palpable until he finally allowed me to slip the weapon from his grip.

“I was sure—”

“I know you were.” With the gun securely back in my possession and the safety on, I stashed it in my waistband for safekeeping. “You heard a car backfire. It’s okay, though. It startled me too, hence…” I pointed toward my foot, where the caustic stinging was slowly set back in.

“John, you’re… bleeding.” Despite meeting Sherlock as an adult, I could see scant traces of a boy I never knew. “Are you okay? Should I call someone?”

“No need. I’m fine, I promise. Just… help me to the loo so I can get some ointment and a plaster.”

“Y-you’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” When I braced myself against him for support, I let myself believe for the briefest second he was strong enough to hold my weight once again. I let him all but carry me through the flat in precisely the way he no longer could in life, and in that moment, I’d have shouldered all the physical pain in the world for even a glimpse of the man I once knew.

I was seated on the edge of the tub before I’d even realized we’d reached our destination and fully expected him to leave me to it. But he, instead, took a knee with obvious intent to stay… and help. “Oh… uh… what’re you doing?”

“Helping, John. You said you needed my help.”

“Well... yes... getting here. But I’m sure I can manage—”

“Just let me do this.” He looked at me, pained eyes poorly concealed behind dark lashes. “Please.”

 _Please?_ Please was bad. “Sherlock... Are we in some sort of danger?”

“Danger? What?” There was a subtle sort of panic in his voice. “No, of course not.” He said it in a way that suggested it was anything but the truth.

“Because, if we are, you don’t have to fight this alone. If there’s someone trying to hurt us—”

“No one can hurt you, John.” His voice was barely a whisper as he gingerly spread a thin layer of ointment over the wound. I wasn’t sure he even knew he was speaking aloud. “I won’t let them.”

“ _Who_ , Sherlock?”

“No one.” As he snapped back to reality, there was a sudden spark of familiarity. “Leave it.”

“Sher—”

“I said, leave it!” All the delicacy of his touch dissipated when he tore the plaster open with his teeth, placed it over the tiny gash atop my foot, and hurried from the room.

And, after that—perhaps unsurprisingly –nothing changed. So we remained… awkward and mostly silent, but present. We weren’t happy, but at least we were both still alive. I reminded myself daily that even this tumultuous existence _with_ Sherlock was still somehow better than any poor facsimile of happiness I’d achieved without him, and I cringed at how harsh the truth can be.


	8. The Soul's Torment

Nothing changed, that is... until it did. It was the middle of the night when I felt an unfamiliar weight on my mattress, an incoherent string of low muttering filling my ears. Luckily, civilian life had served to dull my soldier’s instincts... well... luckily for Sherlock, who may have found a bullet in his brain only a few years prior. And, further suppressing my nature—as a human, rather than a fighter –I didn’t move. Through a barely cracked lid, I could see the silhouette of a trembling man, only slivers of his form made visible by moonlight. He rocked, his palms repeatedly pounding against his forehead in some sort of self-flagellation—punishing himself for... for...  
  
I listened, his words coming in quiet bursts between sobs:  
  
 _moriarty, heard the shot, saw the body, watched him bleed, dead... mrs hudson's shooter, mi5, saw photos, definitely dead... lestrade's shooter, explosion, accident, body recovered, dental records matched, it was him, had to be him, right? yes, it was him, dead... john's shooter, killed him myself, strangled, checked five times, dead, cremated... the web, burned from the inside, mycroft's men, he wouldn't lie, not about this... but... but what if... was wrong before... in the lab, with molly, didn't see, didn’t observe... he took john, took him from me, the pool, the semtex, laser sights everywhere, could take him again... can't lose him, can’t let him die... my fault... all my fault... had to be clever, always clever, frailty of genius, wanted an audience, needed it, not clever enough, never be clever again... burn the heart out of me, can’t let him, won’t let him, not john, please not john, anyone but john_  
  
Though I had no words, the need to verbalise overwhelmed me. “Shhhh...” He flinched at my hand against his spine but didn’t pull away. “I’m fine. I’m here,” I whispered into the dark.  
  
Within seconds, he crumpled in upon himself, twisting and curling around me beneath my sheets. And, of all the times I’d envisioned him sharing my bed, this was never the way it went in my mind. My chin rested at the crown of his head as his breath poured hot against my chest, his lips repeatedly forming the shapes and sounds of _‘I’m sorry._ ’  
  
“It’s fine. It’s all fine. No one will ever take me away again.” I made promises I wasn’t sure I could keep, but I would have spent eternity within the walls of 221B to put my tortured genius back together again. I comforted him as he quaked against me until we both fell away to sleep.


	9. That Which Does Not Kill Us Makes Us Stronger

When sunlight slanted through my bedroom window, Sherlock was still at my side, still sleeping. It was the most I’d seen him rest since his return, and I was thankful. Of course I was relieved to see him even briefly contented, but I can’t pretend I didn’t also appreciate the time to think, to process.  
  
With each slow, even breath he took, I let myself imagine he was okay, that the cracks didn’t run too deep. But it was a lie. I’d borne witness to unbridled torment, the anguish of a beautiful mind. And, as a man who has stared death in the eye, been shot in combat, and watched his best friend jump from atop a four-story building, I can tell you with absolute certainty that seeing the hubris of Sherlock Holmes fall victim to self-doubt is the most unsettling experience in the whole of the universe. To see that magnificent lump of grey matter turn on its master... how dark must his Mind Palace be?  
  
Inky curls slipped absently and effortlessly through my fingers, my nose pressed to his temple with a heavy sigh. He’d always been so clever for me, and now I had to be clever for him. He needed me. After all, I was still a doctor... even on bad days.  
  
I shifted, and he stirred, yawning and rubbing sleep from his eyes. And there he was again... that boy I never met, the one who was only ever barely a child. “G’morning,” I whispered against his ear.  
  
“John? I... didn’t mean to...”  
  
“Fall asleep?”  
  
“Intrude.”  
  
“If I’d had any objections, I’d have voiced them before now.”  
  
“I don’t want your pity.”  
  
“Good, because I don’t pity you.”  
  
He stared at a blank spot on my wall like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “Of course you do.”  
  
“Why should I?”  
  
He turned, his eyes searching my face for even a hint of insincerity. “Because I’m pitiful.”  
  
“You’re suffering.” I traced the worry lines on his forehead with the pad of my thumb.  “Let me help you.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“Because I understand.”  
  
“You can’t.”  
  
“But I do. You’re haunted by what happened, by what could have happened. You feel responsible, like it was your arrogance that put me in danger. You chastise yourself, punish yourself for not doing more, for not _observing_ more. You’re denying yourself work, because you think if you stop being brilliant—stop being Sherlock Holmes –then you won’t draw unwanted attention to yourself, to _us_.” I studied him, and there was something more to it... something causing him far more concern than everything else combined. “You think this life was thrust upon me, worry that I regret it. You want to protect me and feel obligated to keep me alive. And you’re ashamed of how you feel. You assume you’re the only one who feels it. But you’re wrong.”    
  
“How do—”  
  
“I’m alive, Sherlock. And I’m happy. I chose this life. You said ‘could be dangerous,’ and there I was. I could have walked away at any given time, could have been gone when you came back. I suffered too, _still_ suffer... every day. Let me suffer with you. And maybe together we can ease it a bit, or at least find some—”  
  
“Meaning in it? To live is to suffer; to survive is to find some meaning in it? Really, John?”  
  
I nodded, smiling for the first time in a long time. “Nietzsche knew what he was talking about sometimes.”  
  
“I’ll take your word for it.” He smirked, and for the briefest moment, we were... us. When his expression fell, reality returned. “How do you remain so unaffected?”  
  
“Me? Unaffected?” The laugh I coughed out was unintentional. “The PTSD poster child?”  
  
“That was different. That was _war_. It’s expect—”  
  
“I didn’t mean the war.” I dropped my hands away from him and propped myself up on one elbow. “If you think I came away from everything that happened ‘unaffected,’ you’re rather sorely mistaken.”  
  
“You seem fine.”  
  
“I seem—” I huffed out a frustrated sigh. “Of course I seem fine. I _always_ seem fine. That doesn’t stop me being a mess, though.” It was clear he didn’t understand, so I continued. “I quit St. Bart’s because I couldn’t stand the sight of it. I quit my therapist, because she was uncomfortable with how much time I spent at your grave.” Those were words I never thought I’d say. “The sound of violin music drove me mad. The  smell of chlorine still sends me into hysterics. I even had to leave Molly’s once because of the red laser pointer she uses to play with Toby. I’m not fine, Sherlock. I’m _anything **but** fine_. And you feel like you’re alone, like you’re the only one going crazy. Well... I feel alone, too. I’ve never felt more alone than I have in the past couple months with you.” I hadn’t meant to say it, already regretted saying it. “Wait... I didn’t mean—”  
  
“If you don’t want to be here with me anymo—”  
  
“No. That’s what you don’t get. Hell, even I don’t get it. I’d rather feel alone here with you than be anywhere else in the world. I don’t want to leave you. I just... I want you back.”  
  
“I... don’t know how.”  
  
“Then, let me help you. After everything you’ve done for me, just this once, let _me_ help _you_.” His reluctant nod was the best I was going to get, but it was good enough. “Close your eyes.” I dropped my head back to the pillow, close enough to his ear that I could speak soft and low, and stroked his hair. “Go to your Mind Palace.”  
  
He shook his head and sounded like a scared child when he spoke. “It’s not safe there anymore.”  
  
“It will be. Just go there. I’ve left something for you.”  
  
“You couldn’t—”  
  
“I did. Look around.”  
  
“John, they’re here... I can’t—”  
  
“Yes, you can. Look around, Sherlock. There’s a pile of wood, some nails, and a hammer. Do you see them?”  
  
“They’re going to hurt you.” His voice cracked, and I could see just how little peace remained in his life.  
  
“No one’s going to hurt me. I’m right here and perfectly safe, with a loaded Browning within arm’s reach. I’ll worry about me. You just focus on this. Take the supplies and go toward one of them. Get him in a room and shut the door. Now board it up.”  
  
“This isn’t going to work. It’s ridiculous.”  
  
“Do you trust me?” I asked even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.  
  
“Implicitly.” He opened his eyes and looked at me but didn’t hesitate, which was more than mildly surprising.  
  
“Then trust me enough to do something ridiculous for me.”  
  
He nodded and closed his eyes again. “Now what?”  
  
“Find them, find all the bad thoughts and memories and what-might-have-beens. Herd each of them into a room and board it up. Bar the doors with as many planks and nails as it takes. Put them where they can’t hurt anyone, not you or me or anyone else. Do it until the peace returns, until your Mind Palace is yours once again. Reclaim it like I know you can.” I could see his eyes darting back and forth behind his lids, the grimace on his face falling away to relief and then returning time and again. He may have thought the exercise pointless, but he was doing it... which spoke to either resignation, desperation, or both. Because he wasn’t merely placating me by pretending to do as I asked; he was actually doing it. And all I could do was pray it worked, pray I wouldn’t fail him.  
  
I can’t accurately say how long we laid there or what exactly I said. I can’t remember all my words of quiet encouragement or express how tightly he eventually squeezed my free hand—the one that wasn’t still sifting through his curls. I don’t know, because what came next wiped my memory of nearly all that came before it.  
  
There was a clarity behind his eyes when he finally opened them, and that clarity was focused on me. He reached timidly toward my face, his fingertips grazing my jaw, and just stared. I’d never had so much difficulty finding the words I needed to speak.  
  
“Did it wor—” No sooner had I found them, they were cut short by his mouth pressed against mine. I didn’t even see him lean toward me, didn’t remember closing my eyes or parting my lips. And, by the time I realised what was happening, I could no longer remember a time when it didn’t happen. I couldn’t remember how my lips felt without his, how my tongue moved when his wasn’t moving alongside it. I loved him, and— _god help me_ –I always had.  
  
It wasn’t until he reached between us, his hand settling at waist of my pyjama bottoms, that I regained any degree of lucidity. “Sherlock, stop.” Pulling away from him was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do.  
  
“Oh... I... sorry.” He cleared his throat, and I could nearly hear him mentally chastising himself. “I shouldn’t have presumed...”  
  
 _Yes, you should have. Presume some more. Presume all over me in any way you like. Presume me to death, for all I care._ “No... no, it’s not that. I just... not right now, not like this.”  
  
“If you aren’t... I mean... if you don’t feel—”  
  
“I do!” _Jesus, John... no need to scream it._ “I mean... I do. I feel _exactly_ that way. And it’s not that I don’t want... erm... _that_... uh... with you.” Why was talking suddenly so difficult? “It’s just that it can’t happen like this. You’re... compromised.”  
  
“But this is the first time I’ve seen things clearly in... months... maybe years.”  
  
“And therein lies the problem. You’re looking at me through clouded vision right now. Maybe you’re just grateful that I helped you—if I did, in fact, help you. You’re thinking clearly, but it doesn’t mean you’re _feeling_ clearly.”  
  
“I am, though. John... I think... I’m in lo—”  
  
“Stop.” I could barely choke out the syllable through my overwhelming desire to hear the end of his sentence. But, if it was true, I’d hear it again. And, if it wasn’t, I couldn’t bear to hear it at all. “If you still mean that in a few days, tell me then.” And, somehow, I found the strength to walk away.


	10. Avenge Me If I Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the last chapter. I thought I'd end at 10, but that's not how this story wants to be told. More coming. More already written, even. So, more coming soon. ♥

The next five days passed in relative silence, but the silence felt a bit more like normal—or our version of normal, back before faked deaths and resurrections. We had a few casual chats, began spending more time together in the shared living spaces, and even went to Tesco once. He insisted on going with me and was a touch skittish, but it was a giant leap forward in the realm of baby steps.  
  
We’d yet to revisit the discussion from my bed—yet to revisit anything about that morning, actually–and I was coming to terms with the fact that I’d made the right decision in stopping him from making the wrong one. I didn’t particularly enjoy the knowledge that he was only interested in me when he wasn’t thinking clearly or that there was no remaining doubt regarding my feelings for him, but I’d learned to live with worse. It was nice just to have him back, in whatever capacity.  
  
On the sixth day, he was in his room doing fuckall, as far as I could tell, when I decided to slip out for a pint. It was early evening, and I didn’t want to chance disturbing him—or, worse yet, having to drag him with me to the pub. I was barely a block away when a dark car pulled alongside me and beckoned me with an open door. _Mycroft_ , my brain grumbled, and I begrudgingly climbed in. It wasn’t until I was alone in the back seat, no Mycroft in sight, that concern set in. And, when I was fitted with a blindfold and an earpiece, apprehension turned to outright panic. I’d convinced Sherlock there was no threat, no one out to get me, and now I was being abducted when he didn’t even know I’d left the flat. If I survived, he’d never trust me again. _If_ I survived... _IF_.  
  
“I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. Oh, god. I should never have doubted you. I’m sorry,” I whispered into the darkness.  
  
And a voice rang back in my ear, “It’s okay, John. You’re safe.”  
  
But it wasn’t just a voice, it was _his_ voice, _Sherlock’s_ voice, and it seemed to be answering me. “Sherlock? Is that you?”  
  
“It’s okay, John. You’re safe.” Maybe it wasn’t answering me after all, and I didn’t speak to it again to find out.  
  
It felt like I was in the car for hours, but in reality, it was only three minutes and forty-eight seconds before we rolled to a stop. I counted, in hopes of sending off a text when I could finally see again. The distance we travelled could prove crucial to my rescue... assuming I needed rescuing. The voice in my ear said I was safe, but it hardly seemed trustworthy under the circumstances.  
  
My head, upon its own volition,  whipped toward the faint click of a car door, my conscious mind forgetting my vision had been stolen away. A hand gripped my bicep and urged me out of the car, and I obliged. There was no use putting up a fight on someone else’s home turf and in the confines of a back seat. Maybe someone would see me if I got out, notice the blindfold, and call for help. Maybe.  
  
 _five steps up_

_a reasonably heavy door  
_

_deathly silent  
_

_the clacking of our steps on... tile?  
_

_something cool against my thighs  
_

_a turnstile  
_

_clack-clack-clack  
_

_another door_  
  
I froze as the smell of chlorine filled my nostrils, thought I might be sick. _No. No, no, no, no, no._ I didn’t realize I’d said it aloud until the voice in my ear reassured me once again. Maybe I hadn’t said it aloud. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe I’d been abducted by a psychic. Whatever was happening, I wasn’t amused.  
  
My lungs constricted as if strapped with semtex once again, and I could practically _feel_ the laser sights bearing down on me.

_clack-clack-clack_

We stopped.  
  
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you’ve made a terrible mistake. He’ll come looking for me. If you harm me, you’ll suffer the wrath of Sherlock Holmes. And, if that means nothing to you, then you really have no idea what you’ve done.” I hoped it was true, hoped he might avenge me even if he couldn’t save me.


	11. The Greatest Healing Energy

The moment my blindfold was torn off, I turned and swung at whomever or whatever had a hold on me. But my eyes weren’t yet adjusted to the dim light, and I hadn’t accounted for just how slick wet tile could be. So, somewhere between my poor execution and my captor’s evasive action... well...  
  
 _SPLOOSH!_  
  
I hit the water flailing, certain I would drown, and mourned the loss of my final words. I mourned the fact I’d never worked up the nerve to tell Sherlock I loved him. Never thanked him for changing my life. Never said goodbye. Just... a never-ending string of nevers.  
  
Then there was an arm around my chest pulling me to the water’s surface. Once I got a full breath, I spun in its grasp to find a second chance. Sherlock stared at me, stunned. But how? To say I was confused...  
  
“It’s okay, John. You’re safe,” he said it again, but face-to-face rather than mic-to-earpiece, both now ruined by a rather unexpected dip in a swimming pool.  
  
“Is someone making you say that?”  
  
He chuckled, shaking a sopping wet curl from his forehead. “No.”  
  
“Wha—? What’s happening here?” The room suddenly reeked of a misguided attempt at philanthropy.  
  
“I was trying to help you. It’s called immersion or flooding therapy.”  
  
“Or drowning?”  
  
“That... was unintentional. The aim of immersion ther—”  
  
“I know what it is; it’s awful.”  
  
“I know; I’m sorry.” He tried in vain to wipe the water from my cheeks with very wet hands. “But sometimes it works. Is it working now?”  
  
“I-I don’t know.” Between the subsiding fear and Sherlock’s proximity, I could hardly breathe. “What’s next?”  
  
“I thought we might make new memories.”  
  
“Of?”  
  
“Me ripping your clothes off in a darkened swimming pool.”  
  
I couldn’t help but laugh, my teeth chattering from the chill. “People might talk.”  
  
“Let them.”  
  
I don’t know where I found the courage to wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him, but suddenly I had it and used it. When he kissed me back, I smiled against his lips, a bit surprised and absolutely relieved. Certain I’d heard something about ripping his clothes off being on offer, I reached for the top button of this shirt.  
  
“Wait.” He stopped me, my buoyancy making it astoundingly easy to push me back. “Are _you_ compromised?”  
  
I shook my head as I moved toward him again.  
  
He steadily backed toward the pool’s edge as he spoke. “Because some people react irrationally when they feel they’ve just survived a life or death situation, sometimes fear—”  
  
“Sherlock...” I caught up to him on the steps, though neither of us made any attempt to use them. “I’m not compromised. I wanted this before; I’ll want it after; and, most importantly, I want it right now. For the first time in a long, long time, I’m not afraid of anything.”  
  
I was close enough to feel his breath on my face when he replied, “I am.”  
  
“Of _this_?”  
  
He shook his head and tapped his temple. “The boards... what if they don’t hold?”  
  
“We’ll build walls.”  
  
“We?”  
  
“You and I.”  
  
“And... if it doesn’t work... will you still want this then?”  
  
“If by ‘this’ you mean ‘you,’ then yes.”  
  
“What if I can’t be fixed?”  
  
“You don’t need fixing, Sherlock. You’re not broken. You were just... a bit lost at sea. What you need is an anchor.”  
  
“Then why didn’t you leave me an anchor?”  
  
“Maybe I hoped to fill the position myself.”  
  
“It could be permanent.”  
  
“I’m not doing much else anyway.  How do I apply?”  
  
“Well...” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Given the requirements, you’d first have to prove yourself effective in water.”  
  
And it was ridiculous, so we laughed. We laughed, and we were us again. Then we stopped... because, suddenly, we were much, much more.  
  
I can’t recall who initiated the next kiss or started the arduous task of peeling off layers of clinging fabric. And I haven’t  a clue who gave Sherlock the right to taste of safety and comfort and every happy memory I’d ever known. I only remember the trail of clothing floating away at his back and the cold of the metal ladder against my biceps as I clung to it. When he hauled me above the water’s surface, I remember the chill of the air replaced by the heat of his breath and the way it felt the first time he swallowed my prick. I remember how his lips formed a perfect heart, and I briefly considered dying right then and there because life would never get any better.  
  
I was achingly hard, he was impossibly warm, and as hard as I tried to commit every detail to memory, I failed. Maybe it was just too much. Or maybe there were just more important things for me to focus on. Whatever it was, the scene only comes to me in flashes of brilliant perfection.  
  
His teeth on my neck.  
His tongue on my scar.  
The sting of the angry, red claw marks that traversed my back.  
My tongue in his mouth.  
My fingertips digging in at his hips.  
The maddening heat of his body accepting me within.  
  
His arse flush with my thighs.  
My resolve slipping and falling away.  
The sway of milky flesh in a sea of blue.  
His heartbeat quickening against my ear.  
My hand curled ‘round his cock.  
The way he could make my name sound like both prayer and profanity all at once.  
  
The slack in his jaw when he came for me.  
The choked off sob in my throat when I came in him.  
The beautiful lethargy that followed.  
  
Thanking the gods for silicone-based lubricant.  
Cursing the gods for how difficult it was to remove.  
Knowing it was well worth the trouble... and then some.  
  
It only came in flashes, but we still had a lifetime to make more memories.


	12. Keep Calm and Carry On

Yes, while I’d tell you it was Sherlock who started everything that night so long ago, he’d insist it was me. And, some days, we’d come to fight about it  just so we could make up in a fit of giggles and a frenzy of lips and tongues and teeth. Because, in the future, we’d take any excuse we could get to fall into bed together, and sometimes we did it with no excuse at all. We’d both been through hell, and we counted on each other to keep the demons from gripping us too tightly in moments of weakness and reflection.  
  
For him, barred doors became brick walls, and in the end, we used demolition charges to blow those bastards who haunted him into oblivion. For me... well... pleasant childhood memories of going swimming with my family and splashing around with Harry—back when the innocence of youth was commonplace and cynicism wasn’t yet a part of our personalities or vernaculars–faded into the dismay of semtex attire, accessorised with foreboding crimson dots. But those nightmares eventually dissolved into Sherlock’s smile and the press of his flesh against my own. The smell of chlorine no longer inspired a virtuous grin or unbridled panic, rather it brought to mind images of water beading on pale skin and the echo of licentious moans—both his and mine. Where that distinct odour once triggered familial sentiment and then terror, it had since transcended the bounds of rational thought and become the unlikeliest aphrodisiacs.   
  
And we weren’t perfect—because nothing ever is. In fact, we still got lost now and again. Yes, lost... but never alone. We always found our way together—the detective and his blogger–and, truth be told, I wouldn’t have dared to ask for anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that. Over. Fin.
> 
> I hope you can now see where the prompt "Johnlock + water" inspired me and how smut and angst (smagst) nudged me along as well.
> 
> As always, I only cross my fingers I didn't fuck it up in the end... but my greatest wish is that Clandestinepen enjoyed it. Thanks for reading, guys! ♥

**Author's Note:**

> This is going up in several (perhaps quite a few) really small chapters. This is not accidental. Looooooooooove you!
> 
> Comments are always welcome and appreciated.


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